The Duel

Shared Dining Hall Long tables and accompanying chairs abounding, the whole of the Hold and Halls' population is easily set down for a meal here. Vases of daily- cut flowers splash color 'cross the room, brightening. Klah is kept just warm enough over a small hearth; utensils and condiments clutter a small table nearby. Open to the Hold's inner courtyard, a cooling ocean breeze oft times drifts through, though many still prefer to take their meals on the courtyard on summer's hottest days. High-arching ceilings and wintery- colored walls create a comfortable effect, a pleasant place to sit, eat, relax. You see Lord, Fellis, Rathan, and Psychotic here. Karasa is here. Obvious exits: Covered Walkway Inner Courtyard Kitchens Tradewinds Tavern Reception Hallway

Sara Gleaming dark eyes shine like stars from a face of rich coppery brown, framed by straight black hair that hangs to just past her shoulderblades. Not tall, she reaches to a height of 5'5", and is far from delicate. Not fat, Sara is extremely muscular, and quite strong, especially so for her size. Pride and determination are readily apparent in her bearing. A quiet young woman by choice, not given to doing anything without thought, she has an underlying current of energy that can appear when either temper or need calls for it. An elegant triple looped knot made of Weaverhall craft colors and Trader colors seems so at home on her shoulder that it is barely noticeable. Seemingly cut from the deepest of jungle shadows, a long cloak drapes across Sara's shoulders, tied back at the belt to allow more freedom of movement, the cowl dropped back and pooling between her shoulderblades. Obsidian vest of well-oiled leather hugs tightly to her torso, leaving little doubt as to her gender, even if the ensemble is hardly befitting that of the 'gentler' sex. Pants made in as conforming a nature as the vest follows the lines of sturdy, shapely legs, tucked into gleaming jet boots that are fashionable yet very practical. In stark contrast, a crisp shirt billows loosely, sleeves snugly laced to wrists, the throat laced loosely but untied, deep coppery skin gleaming from beneath the snowy fabric. Sara looks to be in her mid thirties.
Rathan steps in from the Tradewinds Tavern. Peydra walks in from the the Inner Courtyard.

Peydra A solidly muscular build cinches Peydra's steady androgyny: broad shoulders support a heavy frame with little fat. At five foot, nine inches, she stands well above average for a woman, her mass imposingly laid out. Thick arms and legs have the bulk of muscle considered appealing on a man, but less attractive without the Y chromosome. Her dirty blond hair is slowly growing, a riot of curls held back and tamed via a visible clutter of hairpins. Still not quite long enough to reach the collar of her shirt in the back, it is sufficient to obscure the brownrider's vision. A few freckles spatter her nose, and vivid blue eyes reflect light and moods with equal ease. Silver and purple twine on Peydra's shoulder; the mating of threads into a declaration of position: Wingrider of Xanadu Weyr. The strand of brown that laces through the ensemble marks her lifemate's color. A short blue tank top covers most of Peydra's torso, leaving a few inches of her stomach bare. Well-defined shoulders and biceps are left uncovered by the simple shirt, and a clear tan line marks her biceps halfway down. Her shorts are a light brown in hue, just a few degrees north of tan, and end several inches above her knees, bearing legs that cannot be called shapely, though they do have definite shape. Peydra looks to be in her late teens.

Peydra stalks into the dining hall, her jaw tight and ticking ever-so-slightly -- not with nerves, but with sheer angry energy. Her gaze slides across the room, blue eyes burning with an intense fury -- who ever said that red was the hottest fire? She does not speak, however, simply crossing to a table with some non-alcoholic beverages and splashing some juice into a glass. A bit of the liquid sloshes over the edge; the brownrider ignores it.

Rathan slinks back under a table, noticing the foul mood of the new arrival.

Karasa sits at the back of the hall, looking either a bit nervous, or a bit angry, or something else in between. She cradles her brown in her arms, munching on a meatroll thoughtfully, unoticing of the rider's arrival. Zelphyn stirs absently. Creel.

Sara is sitting, calmly eating dinner, and watches Peydra as she enters. "Ye look a tad miffed," the Trademaster states mildly. Oh, she's always one to notice the obvious, isn't she?

Peydra's eyes flicker to Sara, and linger on the trademaster for a brief moment. "Really," she says, the irony cascading off her voice with an exuberant rush. "Thank you ever so much for that insightful bit of information."

Rathan slinks over toward karasa, curling up next to her chair. A soft meow is all that is hear as he settles himself.

Karasa reaches down to pick up the slinking animal, and spies the rider for the first time. She scowls. That's all she needs, another idiot who wants to fight. She pulls the cat close to her body and frowns. "Hello, Peydra," she practically spats. Someone else is in a foul mood today, too.

OOC: Peydra grins. Well, well, well. This could be interesting... Sara, Peydra, and a moody Karasa. Who's gonna die? ;)

Sara smirks at Peydra. "Yer quite welcome," the dark skinned woman replies cordially. "What has ye so riled, iffin I may ask?" From her tone, the brownrider doesn't seem the sort that would be terribly riled up about all the hubbub that she'd heard about from some of the Weavers that had witnessed it. The sort that would have the rank to have to care about it, rather.

OOC: Karasa says, "RAHTAN! WHEE!"

OOC: Karasa says, "Rathan"

Rathan hisses at that remark...not him.

OOC: Karasa laughs.

OOC: Rathan says, "Oops, that was ooc...I'm having trouble typing today."

Rathan purrs and rubs his head against her hand. He is quite happy that someone is paying attention to him.

OOC: Sara says, "Who's gonna die? Why, the ensign, of course. (Star Trek joke. ;)"

OOC: Rathan yays! Star Trek. But it has to be a red shirt.

Karasa skritches the feline's head absently, out of habit more than anything. She takes a sip of her klah and sets it back down, sloosh. Zelphyn looks up at her, and lets out a demanding creel. Feed me. Now. Karasa frowns down at him, and snatches up a meatroll, stuffing it in his mouth. "Shut up you nusaincy flitterby!" she hisses.

Lifting the glass halfway to her lips, Peydra halts it again at Sara's question, pausing to contemplate her answer. "The ignominy of the human condition," she replies artistically, with more syllables than charm. "Defined as a few idiots penned up in a rotting hole somewhere beneath our feet."

Rathan turns to look at the noisy flit, enjoying the pampering he's recieving, quite content to stay where he is.

OOC: Rathan knows one idiot that would like to get out, and who isn't an idiot btw. :P

OOC: Peydra is talking ICly; no OOC slight intended.

OOC: Rathan says, "No slight taken. I'm just playing. :)"

"There always gonna be rotten fruit in th'basket," Sara points out. "Ye know how touchy holder sorts ken be." Not that Sara has been fool enough to be that... blatant about anything that wasn't on the up and up. Well, more-or-less up and up. She bites off some bread from the roll in hand and says after swallowing, "Tho if yer gonna get that ruffled b'cause of 'em, ye may want somethin' wi' more kick t'it." Hand waves at a wine bottle near her.

Karasa sighs and tries to calm down. Empathy makes her get all tensiony when it's around. Blah. She takes another sip of ehr klah and takes a deep breath, trying to sooth ruffled nerves. She strokes the cat, that always helps. "I wish I knew your name, kitty."

"I don't drink grape piss," Peydra responds, her voice a little too sweet for courtesy. "Maybe you ought to mind your own sharding business, right?" She takes a long gulp from her drink and glances at the door. There's a tavern around somewhere, right?

OOC: Karasa /DIES/. "Grape piss?"

OOC: Peydra beams.

OOC: Karasa dies again, foor good measure.

OOC: Peydra loves her Peydra-alt. ;)

OOC: Karasa noticed.

Sara raises an eyebrow and chuckles. "My, my, th'courtesy of riders jus' be goin' right down th'river, don't it?" she observes with equal sweetness. "Tell me, rider, ye gonna rough me up now like them foreign idiots down in th'bowels of th'Hold tried t'do t'some of our fine guardsmen?" Sara /is/ a master, even if it's for the simple fact no one was about to dispute it with her. And they may not be /fine/ guardsmen... but.

OOC: Rathan bows out...Gotta run. Be back later.

OOC: Karasa snugs.

"'Fine guardsmen,'" Peydra repeats. "Right. We're talking about the same guard force that produced the idiot who drew a sword on the Weyrwoman in the middle of the Weyr because she was proddy?" Amazing how these stories grow in the telling. "Faranth, and here I thought that was the makings of 'suicidal guardsmen' rather than 'fine guardsmen.'"

Rathen purrs contentedly in the Herder's lap. Karasa strokes the feline softly. "I'm sorry if I'm being a bother, foul moods tend to get to me. Peydra, waht rbigns yo here, anyway? If you have alreayd answered that feel free to spear me or something, ym mind is'nt all here today."

Sara rather likes them stupid. She doesn't have to work quite as hard all the time to get away with stuff here at home. "How else d'ye cull th'herd?" This is simply asked, without hint of enjoyment or remorse. "This be a rather tame Holding, don't ye think?" Eyes shift over to Karasa and she shakes her head with a sigh. "There no' be th'raiders an' such that'd separate th'chaff from the meat."

"The ignominy," Peydra replies to Karasa. "The idiotic rotting carcass who ought to be taken out and -- " She breaks off, checking her account through some effort of will. "One of the Weyr's residents was arrested here," she replies. See? She can be sane. "You!" she flags down a drudge. "Get me a whisky from the tavern." She produces and tosses him a coin to pay for the drink.

Karasa blinks slightly. "The WHAT?" that's nto a word she knows. Blah. She strokes the cat, and tries to reason the whole thing out between the grinding of teeth, the accent, and her general confusion. Uhm.

Sara grins faintly at the herder. "Th'stupidity of idiots. That's what got 'er riled." Still, Sara looks at the rider quizzically. "I've never seen weyrfolk that... concerned 'bout one of their own." At least, if they're willing to claim them. "'Specially when it no' be a rider." Fascinating... there may be more to this brownrider than at first glance. And arousing Sara's interest can be... a good thing or a bad thing.

"I'm going to kill her," Peydra responds. "I'm going to hang her by her ankles until her feet fall off, and let her bleed to death from the injury." Oh, yeah. Touching concern. "We gave her -- " She bites off the statement. "Ig-no-min-ee," she says to Karasa. "Ultimate humiliation. The human race has been ultimately embarrassed by this."

Karasa grimaces. "Oh," is all she says, and goes back to her meal. She has a feeling she should stay out of this, really. The feline is placed upon the table, and the fire-lizard stuffed with another meatroll as she starts to creel agian, and she sips her klah. Quite organized, oui?

Ooooh, even /more/ fascinating. Sara is always fascinated by obvious violent ruthlessness. Or amused. Something like that. "I take it this... person ha' rather abused th'good nature of th'Weyr." She shakes her head in sympathy. "I'd been wonderin' at th'tolerance of th'Weyr." Especially since Elisa has taken the reins. Which is why Sara steers clear of the place; Elisa likely has much the same feelings for the trademaster as Peydra has for the drudge being spoken of.

Madailynn has connected.

OOC: Karasa hides Madilynn!

OOC: Madailynn squeaks?

OOC: Karasa notes that the RP in ehre is rather...moody.

"Rather," Peydra echoes, her tone a bit dry. The drudge comes scurrying back in her her drink, and she awards him a brief glower. "Sharding took you long enough," she says, then tosses back the whisky in a smooth motion. "Faranth," she grumbles quietly.

Sara considers the rider and tosses another coin to the drudge and nods him back towards the tavern. She can be generous at times. It's just very, very rare to witness. "Iffin ye don't mind me sayin' so, ye do no' seem... t'be old 'nough t'have th'sort o' rank that'd ha' t'worry 'bout a lowly drudge." The drudge returns a little quicker this time and sets the new whisky near Peydra before vanishing.

Karasa listens with half an ear to the conversation. "Hm." Zelphyn is fed another roll as she considers the pair's conversation. Maybe she should stay at ehr hall for a while after this? And where IS that Stable MAster?

A brief glower angles itself at Sara. "No, you wouldn't think, would you?" she ask. "Sharding -- " She breaks off. Ahem. Not going there. "Faranth. This has not been my turn." Her eyes fall on Sara's bottle of grape piss, but they move away again after only a brief hesitation.

OOC: Rathan wonders who missed me.. ;)

OOC: Karasa says, "ME!"

Madailynn coughs, or at least one can be heard as the Head Nanny slips on in, hand covering her mouth in an attempt to be polite. The situation is eyed a moment before she removes her hand and lets it slip easily enough to her side. "Peydra." Pause. "How nice of you to visit the hold..." Voice is static, no feeling, no anything is coming from her as she slides across the floor in search of her oh so favorite spot. "And even with your sour behavior you grace us with your presence... but you really should learn to treat people better..." Golden eyes seem to flicker before the Nanny seats herself and lifts her hand up to call attention to the traditional drudge that actually didn't mind serving her.

OOC: Sara is gonna be a tad slow... :) busy elsealt.

"Madailynn, either shut up, leave, or deal with me challenging you right here and now do a duel, all right?" Peydra says, her voice frigid for the moment.

Madailynn's fingers drum quietly upon the table top. "Try it Peydra. I dare you. I don't believe Lady Keelin would appreciate anyone harming her favorite Nanny." Is the icy snap shot right back at the brownrider. Madai's dealt with this one before, and just because she's a rider now doesn't mean she's going to take this kind of behavior from her fellow ex- candidate.

Sara raises an eyebrow at Madailynn and tsks. "She no' be one of yer youngling charges, ye know," Sara points out to the nanny. "I'd think that ye'd not want t'instigate other visitors t'the Hold t'get riled up, would ye?" Sara instigates. And it's usually more profitable her way.

Peydra's gaze lingers on Madailynn for a moment, and then she turns away from the nanny and places her glass delicately on the table behind her. She turns to face Madailynn again, takes two steps closer to the nanny, and speaks in a calm voice, her gaze locked with her former candidate-mate. "Sara, you will, I trust, witness that I am giving Madailynn a chance to withdraw the insult she just dealt me?"

Karasa considers ducking under the table. "Uhm, guys?" she asks nervously.

"Oh, aye," Sara agrees, setting aside her fork to lace fingers together and rest her chin in them. Absolutely /fascinating/.

OOC: Rathan oohs...maybe he'll have company...

Madailynn's lips purse and her body shifts into a more ridged position. "I will not. I tired of your attitude when you weren't a rider and now just because you ride a dragon you think you can come to this hold and treat people the way you are treating them? For Faranth's sakes Peydra, I outright refuse to take back what I said." Nanny shifts a bit more in her chair, not out of nervousness, just to find a more comfortable position. "And I severely doubt that anyone at Weyr or Hold would allow you to get away with anything. T'cerin would be especially unhappy." And Madai does have other friends, namely the Lord and Lady holder and their spawn.

"Shut up, Karasa," Peydra suggests, still not looking away from Madailynn. "And I submit that you, Madailynn, walked into this room with no idea what was going on and drew conclusions from very little information to accuse me of rudeness, and that there was isult in that. If you will not withdraw it, I ask you to choose your weapon." Her voice is perfectly level. "And we can take this outside." All the proper formulae.

Sara sits back and crosses her arms. "Ye are aware that there be one of their weyrfolk down in th'Hold jail," she asks the nanny. "I'm sure ye noticed all the fuss last night."

Ambered eyes roll as Madailynn oh so calmly lifts her hand up to flick away a stray ringlet of ruby. "Is that your solution to everything Peydra? Fighting with weapons? Pathetic. Gee Pey, you sure have lots of honor now." Head tilts and eyes peer at the ex-guard turned rider. "I don't fight. So what are you going to do now?" Madai's not provoking her... swear...

Karasa just grabs the cat and the flit and ducks under the table. She'll be safe, right? No, she's not a coward, but she'd rather not get sliced in two thank you every much.

Sara gets to her feet and walks over to Madailynn and says very pointedly, "If ye do s'much as t'interfere wi' th'relations b'tween th'Weyr an' th'rest of us, I will personally take m'lost profit out of yer hide." Sara is known for having competition suddenly vanish without a trace. "If ye had any sense in yer head, ye'd learn t'keep yer attitude t'company that shares it."

Avicia steps in from the relative silence of the Reception Hallway.

Skye walks in from the the Inner Courtyard.

Peydra steps over to Madailynn, reaching to grab a handful of cloth and jerk the nanny with it. "Listen," she says calmly, her voice quiet. "You have two choices. You can pick a weapon. Or you can hide in this hold for the rest of your sharding life. You have compounded the insult, and I will not accept it. First blood. /Pick/."

"What are you? Her lackey body guard who supports all that this rider does? And if any interfering with the relationships happen between Weyr and Hold, it'd be /her/ doing. Not mine." Tartly Madailynn replies to Sara before she finds herself grabbed by the rider. Still Madai doesn't look one bit afraid. "I don't hide from people like you Peydra. Soon enough I'll be living at your Weyr and then what will you do? Kill me? I severely doubt that my weyrmate's dragon would allow that." She pauses, tongue flicking out to slither 'cross her bottom lip, adding wetness to its dry surface. "I don't fight."

Peydra offers a brief, feral grin to the nanny. "Interesting question," she says, her voice rather alarmingly cheerful. "I wonder how a fight between Theoth and Kinzhalth would resolve. However, I do know off the top of my head that I outrank T'cerin at the moment, so don't rely on him to save you." A brief pause flickers, then the rider states: "Besides, he chose the Weyr over you once before. He'd probably do it again."

Sara shakes her head at Madailynn and tsks. "Ye really think that th'Lord or Lady would stand up fer ye now?" she asks simply. "Slanderous little thing that ye are?"

Madailynn goes wide eyed, optics pale slightly at that comment and Madai struggles to get free of Peydra's grasp. For one so small, she's quick, that's all she has, and she's surely not a fighter. Lips purse and her heated anger filled gaze surfaces upon Sara, yet no words are said before another yank is given and the young lady stumbles away a few feet. "Would you really pit dragon against dragon Peydra? Are you really that sick and twisted?!" Even she, a hater of dragons would not go there, she wouldn't... want them to kill each other!

Quillian steps in from the relative silence of the Reception Hallway.

Peydra pursues Madailynn with unrelenting determination. "Madailynn," she says, her voice calm and quiet. "The insult you offered me has now been extended to Trademaster Sara, for defending the rules of common courtesy by which we all ought to live our lives. You said I wouldn't dare to challenge you. I have. Will you apologize or will you sharding well pick a weapon? Because those /are/ your options. Choose one, or I will."

Quillian slips into the hall, easing inconspicuously to the nearest available seat. She closes her eyes tiredly, but after a moment the voices penetrate and she opens them again, ice blue, to observe.

Sara crosses her arms. "So, that be it, is it? Standin' b'hind th'tail of dragons so ye ken offer hurt an' insult t'anyone ye see fit t'try t'cut wi'yer sharp tongue." Hand rests on her beltknife. "Ye should consider yerself fortunate. This Peydra has honor 'nough t'wait til ye ha' a weapon." Drawing her own blade, she regards the sharp, sharp... knicked edge. "I ha' no such compunctions, nor do I care if ye fight back." Dark eyes level on Madailynn. "Apologize, or I'll ask Lord Wagner t'release ye from service so /I/ ken ha' ye."

Karasa scoops up her fire-lizard and sneaks out.

Karasa opens a door leading to the Inner Courtyard and steps through.

Karasa closes the doors behind her as she walks in from the Covered Walkway.

Karasa walks down to the Reception Hallway.

"I won't fight with a crazed rider who only seeks out the blood of someone at this moment in time. I won't fight you Peydra, and I take back that you wouldn't dare challenge me, but I take back nothing more. It's the truth what I said." Madailynn speaks quietly as she slinks back, sliding around tables and chairs. Sara gets a blink, quiet and thoughtful before she shakes her head from side to side. "I don't hide behind dragons!!" Eyes then seem to flicker with fear as she takes a few more steps back. "I have to go, the children need me."

OOC: Madailynn says, "I feel really bad about backing out this way guys, but my SO just called and I have to go get him in 30 minutes."

M'rika closes the doors behind her as she walks in from the Covered Walkway.

"Ye hide b'hind them. Ye insult this rider thinkin' that yer love's'll protect ye. That her own dragon woul' no let ye. That th'Weyr would let ye insult their riders wi'out them reactin'." Sara shakes her head. "Ye hide b'hind 'em."

M'rika steps in, blinking in the sudden change of light, "Peydra? You here? Audath said you were at the Hold..." She takes in the scene in front of her as her eyes adjust, and doesn't move from the doorway. Peydra pauses only an instant, then jerks her knife out of its sheath and takes a step forward, seizing Madailynn's shirt and lashing out with a quick, light slash designed to lay open Madailynn's cheek -- nothing life- threatening, or even seriously injuring, but the type of wound which will leave a thin, permanent scar.

Madailynn's lips move, words don't fall, and when they finally do they're choppy. "I don't hide behind dragons-" but the Nanny is cut short as the blade's edge seers her cheek, leaving behind a trail of blood in its wake. Eyes widen tenfold then and Madai tears herself away, falls to the floor, and instantly skitters backwards on her butt. Amber pales to a dull gold and she just looks up in horror at the rider. And there she sits, staring up with utter shock. Kids, she just forgot about them.

M'rika jumps in the doorway, "Um, Pey..." She takes a half step forward, then steps back, then forward, her indicision on intervening very clear.

Peydra steps away from Madailynn, gazing down at her coldly, then very deliberately turns her back on the nanny and moves off towards the food table.

Spryte has connected.

Sara regards Peydra with something akin to respect before looking down at Madailynn. Slowly, she crouches down to look the other woman in the eyes. "Do ye think they're all tame?" she asks in a low voice. "They are no'. Fer th'sake of their lifemates, they endure qui' a lot from th'rest of us." She waves her own knife in front of her face. "E'er seen a trained swordsman? Ye ken tell them by how they carry themselves." Knife is sheathed. "Insult a rider, ye insult a Weyr. If ye remember, I be a master." Finger taps the knot on her shoulder. "I coul' petition Wagner fer yer pretty li'l head. /Remember/ that."

Madailynn lifts a hand to send fingers skittering across the line of blood that's now starting to flow from her cheek. "Do it. I no longer care." Is the bitter reply to Sara's threat to her. "Take my knot and take my life if it makes you at all sated for my insults." Eyeds don't even focus upon Sara during her whole threat, eyes are just transfixed upon the sanguine that's marred her tan hued fingers. She's... bleeding.

Spryte finally looks up from her corner chair and takes some notice of her surroundings. This is when she makes note of her cold klah, gone the way of everything around her while she has been pouring over the scrolls in front of her, into oblivion. A grimace mars her features as she eyes the scum on the surface of the cold klah...time for a refill.

Sara shakes her head and says simply, "Ye don' learn anythin' if yer dead." With that indirect threat, the trademaster rises and finds a drudge that didn't hide so well and states firmly, "Get th'good stuff. Now." She nods furtively and skitters off to the tavern.

M'rika shakes her head and steps from teh doorway. Maybe she doesn't want to know what's going on. However, anyone insulting the Weyr or Master Sara... "Peydra, Elisa said I should ask you about This message..." She lays a hand on Sara's shoulder as she passes, but deliberately keeps her eyes off of the Nanny as she moves toward the other brownrider."

Peydra produces a clean cloth from some fold of her tunic and wipes smoothly at her knife blade before resheathing the weapon and glancing up at M'rika. "Which message?" she inquires calmly, the incident over in her mind.

Rathan walks down to the Reception Hallway.

Avicia walks down to the Reception Hallway.

M'rika hands a tattered scrap of hide to Peydra, "You try to make sense of it..." She give the rider a questioning glance to make sure she is ok before heading to get her own mug of klah.

Spryte stretches her arms above her head and shakes out her hands to bring some feeling back to them...shards...how long has she been engrossed? Legs force her into an upright position and shoulders rotate to ease the kinks. A sigh and a few steps deposit the dirty mug in a nearby dishpan and another mug is lifted and filled with hot klah. A glance around and a blink...sheesh...she must have really been out of it by the looks of the others in the room..blood, knives, messages and a totally clueless Spryte.

Rathan steps in from the Tradewinds Tavern.

Madailynn finally rises from the floor, reaching out to grab a near by rag-- caring not if it's dirty or clean--to press against her bleeding cheek before she languidly walks off towards the hall way. "Sharding dragons..." Is muttered under her breath--one that most likely wouldn't be picked up considering her form is gone out the door in the next second.

Madailynn pushes the doors aside and steps out to the Covered Walkway.

Peydra accepts the hide, then nods slightly to M'rika. Situation under control. Her eyes flick down to the message, and she wrinkles her nose at the writing. "Faranth," she says. "Who wrote this, a brain-damaged wherry?" She squints at the lettering, then sinks into a nearby chair. Her gaze moves to the door through which Madailynn just left, and she draws a long, slow breath, closing her eyes for a moment.

Sara looks at the hand on her shoulder then to the owner of said hand and grins faintly. "Good eve' t'ye, M'rika." Ah, one of her favorite customers, yes. Well, besides the fac that she has marks. The drudge returns with a bottle of... something. It's still got the traces of dust not totally brushed off. "Try some o' that," Sara suggests. "It no' as weak as whisky."

Now that the woman is gone, Miri sits next to Peydra, "Should I ask what just happened, or let it lie?" She takes a sip of klah, hissing as she burns her tongue.

Spryte carefully takes her klah, makes her way back to the scrolls, gathers them up and tucks them under one arm and heads out of the room. Time to put these away and have a good long soak in the baths...just the thing to ease stiff muscles. A slight nod goes to the others in the room as she passes by way of both greeting and departure.

Spryte walks down to the Reception Hallway.

Peydra shakes her head slightly, signalling to the drudge who brought her her earlier whisky. "Could you get a pitcher of ale in here?" she requests. To M'rika, she notes: "I was complaining about Jyfer. Madailynn insulted me. The conversation worked around to her daring me to challenge her to a duel, and every comment she made got a little more insulting. So I did. And she refused to fight, and kept insulting me, then Sara, then finally the Weyr as a whole. And I finally lost it. Sorry." Her eyes fall on the hide, a bit distant. "Faranth," she curses quietly.

M'rika shakes her head softly, laying a gentle hand on Peydra's shoulder, "If she insulted the Weyr... And Sara of course,"she smiles, trying to add a bit of humor, "It sounds like she goaded you into it, really."

Sara pours herself some of whatever is in that bottle, the odor of it just shy of the pungency of rubbing alcohol, and knocks it back with barely a blink, tho with a pause to let it 'hit.' She then regards Peydra and The Note. "Anythin' th'matter?" she wonders sincerely.

"I really don't /like/ doing this, you know," Peydra observes drily. Really? Could've fooled everyone else. "It's just that no one else will, and at some point you need to do something that will sink in. D'you suppose she'll scar?" She shakes her head slightly to Sara. "Under control," she says courteously.

M'rika shrugs, "Serve her right if she did, insulting a Xanadu brownrider..." a faint bugle is heard, echoing with Audath's agreement ot his rider's comment.

M'rika has disconnected.

Sara shrugs slightly as she sips at a second glass of the mystery alcohol. "Like it or no', ye be quite effective at it. Nice t'see that th'Weyr got some backbone t'it." She was beginning to wonder if someone was slipping something into the herdbeasts to deprive them of spines.

Peydra's lips quirk into a smile. "Of firestone," she agrees drily. "Lightest provocation, and I erupt. Faranth." The drudge returns with the requested pitcher of ale, and the brownrider pours a mug for herself, taking more care not to spill this time than she did with the juice. Her gaze brushes the room. "Got quiet, didn't it?"

Quillian's eyes widen at the sound of the dragon, glancing back out the door briefly before she attends the riders' conversation again. Still quiet, she absorbs. But eventually she gathers herself and stands, wobbly on her feet, and follows the wall around to the klah hearth.

Sara's eyes crinkle in amusement as she sits back. "Actually, I be quite used t'that. T'folk 'round here tend to disappear whene'er I appear." Or scrupulously avoid. Hand with the glass waves towards Peydra's shoulder absently. "Like I was sayin b'fore. Ye do no' seem t'be one of them wi' rank tha' ha' t'worry 'bout someone as low as some mere drudge." At least, a traditional knot-obvious rank.

Peydra takes a long pull of her ale, then lowers the mug again, her eyes on the glass. "Ah," she says. "Yeah. That. Well, that drudge -- " She breaks off, attempts to reorder the statement. "I've been named personal assistant to the Weyrwoman," she offers finally, leaving off any background 'why' story. Too complicated. She drinks again; large quantities of alcohol are definitely one way to calm a person.

Oooooooooh. /Elisa's/ assistant. Does Sara look inordinately interested? Nah. Imagination. There's no new spin on things with the Peydra-variable tossed in there, oh, no. "Ah, well then. I see why ye be ruffled a' yer drudge's... adventures." Ahem. That's what they're calling it nowadays? "I 'magine that yer Weyrwoman is none too pleased herself."

"I would imagine no one would be, under the circumstances," Peydra replies. She says nothing about Elisa particularly; she's not deaf, and knows of the conflicts between the trademaster and the goldrider... and she will not offer the trader ammunition. Or even little puffballs to throw.

Clever, clever girl. Sara must commend Elisa on her choice. "No, no one'd be terribly thrilled. I'd ha' m'apprentices strung up over a boilin' dye vat fer such a stunt." An apprentice of the weaverly sort eeps and grins, waggling fingers at Sara before scurrying off with the rest of his little circle of friends.

Quillian flattens herself strategically against the wall to avoid being knocked over by the weaverly-sort of apprentice as the boy goes tearing by.

"I'm tempted," Peydra notes drily. "Though I don't have much information regarding what actually happened." She volunteers no more, simply finishing off her mug. Right. Well. "I should probably be getting back to the Weyr. M'rika probably expected me to do something about this." And she retrieves the note. "I -- well, I'm sorry for disturbing your meal." How... anticlimatic, as an apology.

Rathan steps through the swinging doors that leads to Tradewinds Tavern.

Sara laughs at that. "Ye were hardly th'reason m'appetite was spoiled," she points out. "But I thank ye jus' th'same. Clear skies t'ye rider."

Peydra pushes to her feet and dips her head again to the weaver, then moves out of the room with a stride considerably less fury-driven than the one that carried her in.

Peydra walks down to the Reception Hallway.

Interrupting her struggles with the klah pots at the hearth, Quillian observes Peydra's exit before returning to the task at hand.

Spryte steps in from the Tradewinds Tavern.

Spryte strides across the room obviously in rather a hurry.

Spryte walks through the double doors, into the Kitchen.

Spryte steps in from the kitchens.

Spryte steps back into the room muttering under her breath, "When I find that girl she will bear the sting of my tongue." eyes are flashing in a manner which suggests one would be better off not being the girl in mention.

Spryte walks down to the Reception Hallway.

Quillian carefully, oh-so-carefully, fills a smallish jug with klah, sealing it tightly for carrying. Then back toward the door, a hand against the wall steadying her steps. One or two people seem to recognize her, and she exchanges a cheerful smile with them on her way out.

Quillian walks down to the Reception Hallway.